


everyone's the same with a heavy weight and a whispered face

by apollothyme



Category: Marvel
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollothyme/pseuds/apollothyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Clint's relationship described in five Parts: how they met, how they become friends and how they get together + realizing they're both idiots in love and there's nowhere else they should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To say Bruce Banner is a nervous guy doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He’s not nervous in the sense that he’s scared of everything. He doesn’t fear black shadows or men with guns. He isn’t scared of mechanical probes and gamma ray tests. He doesn’t run away at the face of a tough challenge, but maybe that’s just because he doesn’t know how.

See, Bruce is not afraid of unexpected noises that can be heard in the middle of the night; he’s afraid of what they might mean.

He’s always on the run because there’s always someone after him. He’s always hiding because there’s always someone searching for him. He doesn’t fear the darkness – in more depressing nights he even thinks of himself as the darkness – he simply fears what it might hide.

Everyone knows men with guns aren’t dangerous as long as you know how to deal with them, and the Other Guy certainly does. The dangerous people, who probably think of the situation in reverse when they look at Bruce, are the ones who _could_ be carrying guns.

The people lurking in the corners, sitting at coffee shops, riding the car behind him – the one who look most normal, they’re the most dangerous ones. They don’t hold a threat, they hold a promise.

A promise that says, “This machine here can do you no harm as long as it’s turned off. Would you like to see it turned on?”

* * *

The Avengers are... nice, for lack of a better word.

The first Avengers mission went well. They made a hell of a big mess, but they also saved the world, which was what really mattered, and that should have been that. It should have been a onetime thing for the sake of humanity. It should have been a momentary collection of human resources for the greater good.

‘It should have been’ are a great group of words because they far more than should be possible for a group of four words.

Tony offered him a floor at Stark Tower, which included a full lab just for him a bedroom the size of a small village. Then, as if this wasn’t enough, Fury said the attack on Manhattan was only the start of their problems and he asked Bruce, not the Other Guy, to stay. He didn’t tell him to stay. He _asked_.

And that’s how Bruce became part of the Avengers. Just like that, all of his resolves to live in hiding went ‘poof’ and turned to dust. It was an incredibly stupid and reckless thing for him to do, he knew that of course, since things like this never turn out well, but years of living on the run had taken a toll on him and after the crazy alien attack, Bruce just didn’t have it in him to keep running.

Obviously he knew he would have to run at some point when he fucked things up because that’s what Bruce Banner does, but he figured this time he’d wait until he actually did something instead of holding on to the promise of disaster.

One by one, the other Avengers all trickle back to the tower. At the beginning they don’t see Bruce as part of the team, but no one does so really, what’s new? However, they do see the Other Guy as some sort of ally, which in turn makes them see Bruce as a well-contained threat, so to say.

Somehow though, things gradually change as they spend time together at the Tower.

It starts with Tony.

Tony doesn’t see him as a dangerous man, which Bruce thinks is related to an incredibly inflated ego, a non-existent sense of self-preservation and high levels of curiosity. Tony sees Bruce as some sort of fascinating creature, which is nothing new in itself, only Tony finds not just the enormous green rage monster interesting, but Bruce’s mind as well. This not new either, but it’s a behaviour Bruce hasn’t seen in a long time. Frankly he missed it, as superficial and attention-fishing as it might sound, Bruce missed being appreciated for his intellect.

Next is Captain America, who genuinely respects and admires Bruce for staying with the team despite his rocky relationship with heavily gunned organizations. Bruce knows this because Steve pulls him to the side one day after he finds Bruce lurking in the kitchen at four a.m. looking for a cup of coffee. He tells Bruce he’s glad to have him on the team in this earnest, honest tone of voice that has Bruce wondering if the man is even real, because this is a guy who could probably get elected as President by saying ‘All I want is the best for America’ and here he is telling Bruce he wants him on the team.

Never mind that he’s only seen Bruce in action once. Never mind that Bruce is dangerous in every possible sense of the word. Never mind that Bruce could shift and kill him without a thought. Never mind all of that to Captain America, who still trusts him because, “I think you can do some real good for the world, Doctor Banner, and I’d like to have you on the team for that.”

Thor is afterwards, but Bruce reckons that’s only because Thor was away for a while dealing with Loki, since there’s nothing but affection in the man’s eyes when he gives Bruce a bones-crushing hug the first time he sees him after the alien attack. He slaps Bruce on the back so hard Bruce sees green for a second, tells him he’d like another match with “the mighty green warrior” and that’s that for Thor. He sees Bruce as some kind of mysterious, ferocious competitor and Bruce doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s just a nerdy scientist that fears promises of threats more than threats themselves.

This leaves only the SHIELD agents, or, as Tony had called them, the master assassins, as the only people Bruce hasn’t developed some sort of friendship with yet.

Since there hasn’t been anything like the crazy alien invasion on Manhattan since the Avengers formed, they’re not around much. Bruce catches glimpses of them every so often as they leave and enter the building. A calculated look in their eyes, a strut in their walk, practiced strength in their movements. For a while, this all Bruce knows about them. Sure, he’s read their profiles, but there’s so much classified stuff in there that reading them was like doing the crosswords while sitting upside down and blindfolded in an underwater tank full of sharks.

In the end, just like it had happened with the other Avengers, he makes peace with Natasha first after she approaches him.

He’s in the tiny, home theatre on the 27th floor, sitting at the back with a bowl of popcorn in his lap and Shadow of a Doubt by Hitchcock playing on the screen. Bruce has always liked old horror movies. The effects aren’t good enough to scare him, and they take him away from his life for an hour and a half.

Sometimes when one of the main characters dies in an especially gruesome way, he cruelly thinks ‘I could have it worse’. Besides moments like this one, he almost never thinks like this. Mostly this is because it’d be quite hard for him to have it worse, but also because while Bruce is many things, cruel is not one of them.

A couple of minutes into the movie, Natasha enters the room and closes the door loud enough for Bruce to hear so as not to alarm him, a precaution he appreciates even if it is a tad annoying, and sits by his side.

“So you’re part of the team now,” she says. It’s not a question, just a simple statement, but nonetheless it makes Bruce feel like there’s a right and a wrong answer.

“Yes?” he asks, unsure of his reply despite the weight of an Avengers card in his right pocket.

“And do you know what that means?”

Bruce stops and thinks for a second. Does he know what it means to be part of a superhero team? No, not really. He reckons it means he’s doing something right and it gives him a tiny, fragile feeling of peace to think he’s doing something good with the beast inside for once, but that’s about it.

He decides to give her an honest, simple answer that resembles all those talks from Cap about team bonding and trust. “It means I will be there for you guys whenever I can.”

Natasha nods, a faint, amused smile on her lips. “And we’ll be there for you.”

Bruce is surprised by her reply, but he pretends not to be as his old self-preservation instinct kicks its legs against his shin and tells him it’s never good to share personal information with a spy. Natasha notices his surprise anyway and adds, “If we’re going to be a team, we have to act like a team.”

That’s one of Cap’s instructional sentences. He likes to throw them around whenever they practice, which isn’t a regular habit for Bruce what with the anger management problems. Bruce couldn’t wait to hear Cap tell them ‘We’re a team, we have to act like a team’ while everything goes to hell in the field.

“I’m sorry about what happened back at the Helicarrier,” Bruce says, uncomfortable and frantic to change the subject.

“It was our fault. We shouldn’t have put you in that position,” Natasha replies calmly and sure of herself. Bruce envies her. He can do calm and he can do sure of himself, but he has never managed to do both properly at the same time.

“Alright,” he says even though he disagrees with her. He shouldn’t have put himself in that position, but if SHIELD wants to take the blame for once, who’s he to disagree.

They go back to watching the movie, Bruce having seen it enough times to be able to follow the story without paying attention.

“I love this movie, it’s one of my favourites,” Natasha says after a while.

Bruce wonders if she means it, if she’s actually sharing something genuine with him because spies don’t do that. Spies will tell a thousand lies before they tell a single truth. It’s what they’re trained to do.

“You like Hitchcock?” he asks, truly interested in her answer.

“Who doesn’t?”

Bruce nods. That’s a good answer.

From then on they meet every so often to watch Hitchcock movies. They don’t say much, which Bruce appreciates since he’s not a particularly talkative person. Not too long after, Tony finds out about their movie adventures and decides to crash the party, dragging Cap along. Thor shows up as well, although he doesn’t find the movies interesting and falls asleep more often than not.

The only one who never shows up is Hawkeye.

It’s been four months since Bruce moved to the Tower. In those four months, he’s only caught tiny glimpses of Clint Barton, enough to be able to recognize him if he saw him on the street, but not enough to give him the confidence to say ‘hi’.

Once they bumped into each other at the kitchen. Clint had grumbled something that sounded like ‘hey’ as he walked out with a giant mug of coffee and Bruce had flashed him the briefest of smiles.

Bruce is sure Clint isn’t scared of him. Clint looks like he’s the sort of guy who thinks of ‘fear’ and ‘worrying about the eminent end of your life as the building you’re on collapses’ as things that happen to other people. In fact, he is sure Clint is indifferent towards him, just like so many people had been before Bruce was exposed to the gamma rays.

For some reason Bruce isn’t looking into, this annoys him. A lot.

He is no longer used to being someone people are indifferent towards. He always matters in one way or another. As an ego to the Other Guy, as a scientist, as the really smart guy who knows the legal doses on all the bottles. Bruce is used to people being wary of him, like they damn well should be, and as so, he isn’t used to Clint Barton, who could be tracking all of Bruce’s movements for all he knew but looked far more like he couldn’t care less about Bruce’s existence.

Knowing this, Bruce does the only rational thing he can do, which is to completely ignore this information in every possible way whatsoever. He knows Hawkeye is part of the team just like the Other Guy is as well, but he doesn’t think about the man behind the mask, who has dirt blonde hair, a crooked smile, more muscles than a bull and the bluest eyes Bruce has ever seen. He knows who Clint Barton is, but for a long time, he pretends he doesn’t, because he’s not sure what else he should do.

The others constantly try to give him advice. Say what you want about superheroes, but they are nosy as hell and that’s just something nobody can deny. The person who approaches him the most is Cap, who is still really into the ‘We are a Team so we must behave like a Team’ motto. Bruce doesn’t know why any of them try to help him. He doesn’t need to become friends with Clint Barton.

One foggy Sunday morning, just after dawn, Bruce discovers that maybe Clint needs to become friends with him.

He’s on the patio in the 32nd floor reading an essay on Nuclear Pulse Propulsion. There’s a hot cup of tea on the little table next to him, and the cold air is burning its way to his lungs. He feels relaxed as he watches the streets of New York begin to bustle with activity when Clint opens the glass door. There are ugly bags beneath his eyes and a heavy look of defeat on his face.

Clint doesn’t look surprised to see him there, although he does ask, “Do you mind if I sit here, Doc?”

“No, not at all,” Bruce says automatically. He hadn’t been taught much by his parents, but being polite was one of the exceptions, and the instinct to be courteous kicked in before he could stop it. Not that he’d tell Clint to go away. Nuclear Pulse Propulsion isn’t that interesting.

He waits for Clint to say something else, but all the man does is sit down on the other side of the patio and put his hands on his knees as he breathed in deeply. Bruce goes back to reading his essay after a couple of minutes.

“Do you-“ Clint begins to say, staring intently at his hands as he tries to form the rest of the words.

Bruce waits patiently for him to finish, curious on where this is going. When he realizes Clint isn’t going to finish his sentence, he prompts, “Do I what?”

Clint turns his head to look at him, with an honest, pained look in his eyes that makes Bruce want to lean in and hug him.

“How do you handle it? Not being in control?” he asks.

Bruce doesn’t resent the question. He probably would if it came from any other person, but he knows where Clint is coming from and he wants to help. Bruce likes to help others, but he doesn’t get a chance to do so often, what with being a danger to humankind and what not. If he can help a teammate by talking about something deep and private that can be used to hurt him if it gets out, then he’ll do it.

“I don’t think you handle it. It’s just something that happens. You can try to train yourself,” and Clint has definitely been training from how tired he looks, “and you can promise yourself it won’t happen again, but it’s not your choice. Not really. At the end of the day, the only thing you can do is hope for the best and try to fix your mistakes afterwards.”

Clint shakes his head. “I should have done something. I should have found a wake to be in control and not killed all those people.”

“You couldn’t. You were attacked by a demigod with magical, brain-controlling powers. There was nothing you could have done.” Bruce says, but he knows it’s not the right thing to say. Clint’s probably heard those words a hundred times by now. “Hey, if you want, I could try teaching you. There are breathing techniques and ways to clear your mind that help you stay in control. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

Clint stares at the ground for a couple of seconds before he bolts up and says, “Alright. Teach me.”

“What? Now?” Bruce asks. He fails to hide his surprise, which earns him a small grin from Clint.

“We can do it later but…” ‘now is as good a time as any’ remains unsaid between them.

Bruce closes his Stark Pad and puts it away. Clint’s right. The sooner you start, the sooner you get results and Clint looks like he really needs to see some results.

“Sit down. Keep your back straight but your muscles relaxed.”

Clint does as he’s asked, letting Bruce go on automatic on what he should do. He recites the words without needing to think about them, words of advice, things he can do, new food he can try. Bruce has researched how to stay in control so thoroughly that he could write a book about it by now.

“The breathing is the most important part. Focus on your breathing and forget what’s around you. Keep a slow, steady rhythm and fill your thoughts with it. Only you can control this.” Bruce drones out, a hand on the back of Clint’s back as he watches a couple of micro expressions pass through Clint’s face. Discomfort. Doubt. Annoyance.

“This isn’t working.” Clint says after a little while, making Bruce laugh.

“We’ve only just started.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Doc, Doc,” a voice from somewhere above him says, “just breathe Doc. Don’t worry; everything is going to be okay.”

“What?” Bruce tries to say, but his throat is drier than the Sahara desert and all that comes out is a low, rumbling cough.

“Shit, shit. I think they left water here somewhere. I’ll get it for you,” the person above him says, who Bruce is now almost one hundred percent sure is Clint, since he’s the only one who calls Bruce ‘Doc’.

Bruce drinks the water greedily, with long gulps that make his parched lips sting and his throat ache. He feels pain all over, not just on his skull. Every joint in his body creeks, every muscle is strained, everything in him begs him to pass out now before the Other Guy shows up to deal with the pain, which seems to be increasing with each slow second, wave after wave of discomfort flooding over him.

Clint doesn’t look much better. His hair is sticking in all directions, his skin is covered in ash and dirt and there’s this slightly maniac look in his eyes that tells Bruce he should be worrying too.

“What happened?” he manages to ask after a body-racking coughing fit.

“You were hit really bad. I tried to stop them, but I couldn’t get to you in time, and when I finally did, they decided to take me along for the ride. I’m sorry.”

The Other Guy begins to take over on his own volition. They’d been fighting AIM, who think they’re so smart with their clever suits and their little guns. It had been a long fight, right in the middle of Manhattan where the Other Guy knew he couldn’t go crazy. Bruce was tired, the Other Guy was tired and if there’s one thing you don’t want a person with anger problems to be, it’s tired.

To think that they’d had the nerve to take him and Clint was just the cherry on top of the cake. Bruce wasn’t going to hurt them, but he sure as hell couldn’t speak for the Other Guy, who’d probably bash their heads in and—

“No, no, Bruce. You can’t do it, you can’t shift,” the desperation in Clint’s voice and the use of his name breaks Bruce out of his reverie. He’s never heard Clint sound like this before, not even when they talked about Loki. “They put something in your blood. It will kill you. If you let the other guy take over you’ll die.”

The words wash over Bruce like a tidal wave. His chest begins to tighten, rage mixing with growing traces of blind panic. Bruce can feel it – a heavy weight in his heart, as if someone’s mixed lead with his blood. A promise.

He’s not scared of death. He’s never been scared of death. When he put a gun to his head he felt tranquil and self-assured, a perfect portrait of true madness. While he waged wars within, his fingers quietly and without a single tremor picked up a gun and he consciously shot himself. But he only acted like this because he was the one in charge. There were no promises left. There was nobody else there but him.

Now, the choice has just been plucked from his hands, but the promise of death is still right there.

Bruce tries to rein himself in, but his control of his body begins to slip. His pupils dilate, his veins widen, his breathing becomes more and more erratic until he is practically fighting for every lungful of air.

“Do that thing you taught me how to do. The breathing. Do that, Bruce. Just breathe and everything will be okay,” Clint says, but Bruce can’t do it, not when his heart weights so much and his body hurts and he still feels so much consuming, vicious anger.

Everything in him begs for some kind of release. All the valves on his self-control are going off and Bruce can’t hold them in place. He can’t focus. He can’t think. He can’t breathe.

“I can’t do it. I can’t,” he gasps as his lungs punch his ribcages in a search for air.

“Okay then focus on something else,” Clint says, a mad edge brushing against his every word, “Focus on me. You can do that. I’m right here, so just focus on me.”

Bruce tries. He focuses on Clint’s dishevelled appearance, on the grim set of his mouth, on the lines of worry around his eyes. He tries to focus on the man in front of him, but it’s not enough.

“Talk then. You need to talk,” he asks.

Clint doesn’t miss a single beat, words pouring down his mouth in a rush. “I can shoot a fly twenty meters away from me with my eyes blindfolded just by listening to the buzz of its wings.”

Bruce manages a tiny nod. That sounds like something Clint can do.

Clint sees the nod as a piece of encouragement and keeps going.

“I was in the circus as a kid. That’s how I got started. I shot apples off the top of people’s heads, threw knives around them. That kind of stuff,” Bruce thinks he should make some sort of interjection, but he’s still too busy focusing on keeping control so Clint continues. “I hated it there. I loved archery, getting a chance to practice and become better every day, but I was always desperate to get out and do something bigger.”

“You did.” Bruce whispers, but Clint just shakes his head.

“I didn’t get out. I was beaten up and left for dead after I caught the circus manager and my brother embezzling money.” Clint lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. “After that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was lost for a long time until SHIELD found me.”

Ever since Bruce started teaching Clint how to stay in control, they’ve gotten closer. Not as close as Cap and Tony are, but those two are on another level already. He and Clint just talk. About the news, Bruce’s favourite movies (Hitchcock), Clint’s favourite band (Fall Out Boy, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Bruce), the best way to cook a good steak (Bruce said grilled with a couple of herbs from the south of India, Clint remained adamant that fried was the only way), etc.

They became sort of friends, but they never talked about their past beyond the Avengers, which makes this conversation new territory for Bruce.

“I’m good with guns. I’m good with anything I can aim, but I prefer the bow and arrow. It’s what I’ve always used.” Clint adds and then falls silent.

“Do you still talk to your brother?” Bruce asks, which makes Clint let out another nervous laugh.

“No. God, I don’t even know where he is anymore. What about you, Doc?”

Bruce shakes his head. He’s certain Clint has read his profile and knows all about his past, but this is him asking, maybe because he’s still trying to keep Bruce calm while they wait for rescue, maybe because he genuinely wants to hear Bruce’s story from his mouth. Regardless of why he cared, Bruce still answers him.

“No brothers or sisters,” he hesitates on whether or not he should tell the truth before he thinks ‘screw it’. If Clint can be honest then so can he. “Dad was an angry alcoholic who killed mom. I killed dad when he got out of jail and tried to kill me.”

The last person Bruce talked to about his family was Betty and it was after knowing her for three years. Now he’s telling everything to a spy who wears purple underwear all the time and makes killer breakfast. A spy he’s only known for six months.

Six months. That should be nothing. That used to be nothing, when Bruce thought he was going to have to spend the rest of his life on the run. Now he has a whole floor to himself in the highest building in New York. He has friends and he’s part of something and he doesn’t want to die.

Six months ago he’d have said “yes, please” to quiet death like this. Today he’s listening to Clint Barton’s surprisingly soothing voice change the topic from their pasts to a detailed explanation on why the Yankees are so much better than the Red Sox.

How things have changed.

“Where are we?” Bruce asks after Clint’s finished with his ten-minute long explanation that probably would have included a PowerPoint if they had the resources.

“Looks like an underground bunker to me. We’re most likely past Queens, but I’m not sure. They hit me on the head halfway through the ride and I lost track of our movements. The others should be here any minute now unless they threw away all our stuff.”

They all have trackers on their outfits, courtesy of Stark Industries. They’re made for their safety in case something like this happens, so they can be easily turned off with a specific code only they know or thrown away if you know where they are.

“Think we won?” Bruce asks since he doesn’t remember much about what happened. The Other Guy’s memories are always fuzzy, but he can usually keep a general idea of what happened. This time, however, all he can remember is a jumbled mix of destruction and pain. Lots and lots of pain. Enough to knock out the Other Guy, a very unusual occurrence.

“Oh, we definitely won.” Clint grins at him, confident and content despite their current situation. “We were almost finished when they took us. No chance AIM got back on their feet after Thor rained his mighty thunder on them.”

Now that Bruce is calm, Clint is no longer obliged to keep talking to him. He sits down with his back against the little cottage bed they’ve put Bruce on and starts examining the room they’re in, probably looking for an escape in case the rest of the team can’t get to them.

Bruce feels the tiniest pang of sadness as he realizes they’ve fallen into a definite silence, but it’s at this moment that sleep claims his body, and not even Bruce’s self-control can fight that.

* * *

White light. The taste of polyester in his mouth. The sound of a cardiac monitor. More light. Heat. The sound of voices talking over him. One of them sounds angry, the other restrained. A slow heaviness settles around him. Sleep.

* * *

He opens his eyes slowly. The light over him is too bright. His eyelids feel like they’ve been closed with superglue and the air smells so much of bleach he’s practically choking on it. He tries to lift his hand but all he manages is to feebly lift one of his fingers. Better than nothing.

“Hey there, Big Guy. Don’t strain yourself. You’ve been through hell of a bender.” A voice next to him says and it only takes Bruce’s tired brain a couple of seconds to recognize only one person could sound so casual and pompous at the same time.

“Tony,” he croaks. He recognizes the room he’s in as the Tower’s infirmary, which is the last drop of knowledge he needs to relax.

“The one and only. Drink this,” he hands Bruce a glass of water. “You should be feeling like your old self in about one hour, three if you refuse to eat lunch. It’s a very special lunch,” he adds with a grin.

Tony is not a Doctor. Well, he is, technically. He must have at least twenty degrees by now, but Bruce is almost one hundred percent certain none of them are in Medicine. Almost.

“Anything else I can get you?” Tony asks. Bruce tries to squint at him, but his eyes fail to cooperate. Anyway, he has to be wrong. The day Tony wears a lab coat is the day the military stop being a bag of dicks.

There are many things Bruce could ask like what happened? Am I going to be alright? Did we win? What he asks is this:

“Where’s Clint?”

“Hawkeye? In his room I think. I’ll call him.”

Before Bruce can tell him that’s not necessary, Tony is already at the door, leaving Bruce all alone as he waits.

Could be worse, Bruce thinks. He could have asked about Thor instead and got slapped on the back with so much enthusiasm that he coughed out his lungs.

“Hey, Doc. You called?” Clint says as he enters the room. He settles in on the chair next to Bruce’s bed and gives Bruce a small smile.

It’s a simple smile. One probably made just to be polite and yet, it still makes Bruce feel embarrassed. He blushes and feels like he’s not worthy of that smile, just like he hadn’t been worthy of hearing all that stuff about Clint’s past to keep him from killing himself.

“Just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine. The team got there about one hour after you fell asleep. No problems. What about you? We weren’t sure who you wanted to treat you, so me and the rest of the team kept everyone out while Tony worked on removing whatever it was they put in your blood.”

The swell of gratitude Bruce feels at that moment threatens to make him shed a couple of lonely, pathetic tears, but Bruce manages to contain himself and flash Clint a tight smile in their place. He already has so many things to thank the Avengers for that he doesn’t even know where to begin, but keeping his blood away from a medical team or worse, SHIELD, is definitely one he needs to add to the list.

“I’m fine too.”

Clint flashes him another smile, but this time it’s a more genuine one. This time Bruce feels like he’s worthy of receiving it because he’s part of the team, dammit, and he’s Clint’s friend and not all things in life are bad ones.

“When are you getting released from this place?”

“An hour if I eat whatever Tony has made for me. Three if I don’t.”

“Awesome, I’ll start setting up the theatre then. I got the first seasons of the Original Star Trek series on Blu-ray and since you’re all weak and tired this is the perfect time for me to shove them down your throat.”

Bruce smiles. Everyone knows TNG is better, but Clint saved his life by talking to him about his past and the Yankees, so Bruce figures he can indulge him on this just this one time.


	3. Chapter 3

Video games have never been Bruce’s thing.

He’s a nerd who likes to collect comic books, read papers on astrophysics in his spare time and solves equations as he eats breakfast, but he doesn’t like video games. Sue him.

Actually, he takes that back because he’s certain Clint will sue him if Bruce says, “I’m sorry Clint, but I just don’t like them. Is that really that bad?” one more time.

“Yes, it is,” Clint replies, all the while glaring at Bruce with the power of a thousand arc reactors. Clint decides to change tactics when he notices the glaring and poking isn’t getting him very far. “Come on, Bruce. It will be fun,” he whines as gives up on being polite and begins to forcefully tug Bruce towards the elevator.

It’s extremely unfortunate for Bruce – almost a crime in all honesty – that he’s befriended a man who absolutely adores videogames and just yesterday discovered that Tony Stark has his own personal arcade, fit with all the classics and some new titles not even Clint knows, down on the 19th floor.

It’s all right and dandy that Clint is a big video game fan. Everyone needs a hobby and Bruce likes to see Clint happy and excited for something other than archery. He does not, however, understand why he has to like video games too.

“Because you’re a self-proclaimed nerd and this is what nerds do. Also, you need to get out of your lab more and this will be fun. I promise.”

They move slowly, with Bruce holding on to every available surface as Clint continues to drag him. Near the main living room, they pass by Natasha, who lifts a single eyebrow at them but doesn’t say a word as she turns back to polishing her knives. Goddamn spies, Bruce thinks, they’re too good at being annoying than it should be humanly possible.

Eventually Bruce gives up. Clint is stronger than him and the sooner they get this done, the sooner he’ll be able to retreat to his lab.

“Alright, we’ll start with the classics. You, me and Street Fighter One,” Clint says.

When they enter the arcade, Clint eyes the room with genuine glee written on his face. There is a happy trot in his every step as he walks around with the biggest smile on his face. Regardless of everything, Bruce feels happy to be here with him.

This feeling of irrational fondness for his adult friend who likes to act life a five-year-old lasts until Clint pushes a controller onto his hands and Bruce loses so pathetically it actually stings his non-existing, gamer pride.

“This sucks,” he says and begins to make his way to the exit before Clint stops him.

“No, c’mon, Bruce. I’ll teach you how to play,” Clint says with big, doleful eyes that are meant to be a trick. An ‘I’m so cute that you just can’t resist me’ trick and Bruce will not fall for it. No, sir. “Please?”

Oh, goddamn it. “Fine, just one more game.”

He is an award-winning scientist who turns into a great, big beast of destruction when he’s angry and works with a superhero team who saves the world on a weekly basis and he can’t say no the Clint ‘Fucking Hell’ Barton.

Bruce is so screwed they should invent a new word for ‘screwed’ just for him.

“Okay, in that case let’s kill some zombies.”

The game is called Bloody Destruction of The Undeads XII and it’s inside a big, black box with a door covered in black cloth so that no light filters in. Inside the box, which is a box no matter how many times Clint calls it a “division for immersive experience”, there are two platforms on the floor for the players to stand on and two guns on the walls, one blue and the other one pink.

“I’ll take pink,” Clint says as he directs Bruce to one of the platforms. He starts up the game with ease, which makes Bruce think Clint’s already played it, or at least played a similar version.

Bruce only realizes what a terrible idea this is when the game starts.

It’s an immersive experience alright.

The screen, which was just the wall in front of them before, turns out to be the entire box as every wall takes up the shape of a rundown village. The sound comes from all around them, little noises of crickets to his left mixed with the fluttering wind to his right and the faraway sound of zombies searching for the next prey in front of them.

“This is a bad idea,” Bruce says. The platform beneath his feet begins to shake, giving the impression that Bruce is walking. All around him the scenery changes as their characters begin to move.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a game. Just follow my directions and you’ll be alright.”

“Clint--”

“Do you trust me?” Clint asks, interrupting Bruce from continuing his complaint.

Bruce doesn’t need to think about his answer, which just goes to show how screwed he is. Clint Barton is dangerous; he’s not a ticking time bomb like Bruce, he is in fact so much worse. He doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and he sees more than he should. He’s always there for Bruce or the Other Guy, trying to protect them when he should be running away at full speed in the opposite direction.

He’s dangerous. He’s under Bruce’s skin and all around him with his easy smiles and his distrustful nature that somehow, for reasons Bruce doesn’t understand, trusts Bruce.

“Yes,” Bruce says, because it’s impossible not to trust the man who brings you sandwiches at four a.m. and listens to you talk about the polarization of light beams for two hours.

“Then focus on my voice, and everything will be alright,” Clint grins, all easy confidence and overwhelming warmth. Bruce nods, dumbfounded and unsure of what the hell he’s doing, but partially certain it can’t be that bad if Clint is looking at him like that.

Clint’s cool voice washes over him. His instructions are clear, his commands so sharp and precise that all Bruce has to do is follow Clint’s voice. He’s terrible, of course, never having played a game like this his whole life and with an aversion to guns that makes him hesitate to press the trigger every time.

It helps that the ridiculous blue toy in his hands doesn’t remotely look like a real gun and that the zombies look so little like humans they’re almost unrecognizable, but the thing that gets Bruce through, in the end, is Clint’s voice. Steady and comfortable, framed by a smile. Bruce’s not enjoying himself all that much, but he’d be doing a hell of a lot worse if he were doing this alone.

“That’s it; we’re almost at the end. You’re doing an awesome job, Bruce,” a crystal clear lie, but Bruce lets it slide.

Sometimes being lied to is better than hearing the truth, like when you're seven and your dad has just beaten your mom to a bloody pulp and the paramedics say ‘she's dead’ and you're too young to fully understand them, but even so you know what they mean.

"I've got a good coach," Bruce says, and he hopes he sounds as light-hearted as Clint.

They win the game, all thanks to Clint, and go on the search of a snacks machine and somewhere comfortable where they can sit. Bruce already feels an itch to get back to his lab, but he lets Clint buy them two packets of cookies and two juice boxes anyhow.

"Expiration date is next month, hell yeah," Clint says, fist-pumping the air in joy before he takes out three cookies and shoves them inside his mouth at the same time. “D’lic’os,” he says with his mouth full of chocolaty goodness, spraying crumbs everywhere in the process.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bruce says after he takes a sip of his juice. There’s a green elephant on the cover and he’s drinking through a red and white straw. If the neon lights in the arcade were hidden by the silhouettes of other people, and the air was full of laughter and loud voices, Bruce could swear he was a ten-year-old kid again, full of bruises and with nowhere else to go.

He feels Clint’s stare on him before he sees it. Clint’s exceptional at staring. He can almost turn the experience into a physical one, as if his stare has tiny arms and every second it bores on you is the equivalent to a tiny, vicious punch.

“Yes?” Bruce asks when he reckons he’s at the brick of getting a black eye from all the tiny punches.

This is not the first time Clint has stared at him like this, but up until now Bruce had always assumed it was just an automatic action for Clint, who has probably been trained to stare and sit still for hours. Nevertheless this stare, unlike the others, feels far more personal. This is the kind of stare that not only sees you, but also sees what you’re thinking. Tries to, at least.

“I’m going to do something now, and it’s probably going to be very stupid, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

Bruce’s about to ask, ‘what?’ when Clint kisses him. On the mouth. With his own mouth.

Clint tastes of chocolate mixed with the faintest hint of orange juice. There are a couple of breadcrumbs on his lips that Bruce can’t resist darting his tongue towards, which makes Clint part his lips softly so that they kiss properly. Clint’s tongue is capable of doing wonderful things, licking behind Bruce’s teeth and sending shivers down his spine before he pulls back and nibbles on Bruce’s bottom lip, which is lightly chapped and now red and slick with spit.

“That was really, really stupid,” Bruce says, which makes Clint back away as his lips twist into a frown and his eyes darken and no, that’s not right. Clint isn’t supposed to be upset. He’s not supposed to kiss Bruce and look so fucking hopeful, leaving Bruce to be the responsible one and put some tracks on the ground when all he wants is to derail and just let himself have something good for the first time in a long, long time. “I’m a bad person, Clint. I’ll hurt you, I’ll mess up everything, I’ll—”

“No. No, you won’t, not if we don’t at least try.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Bruce says, self-proclaimed voice of reason even though he’s got a hand on the back of Clint’s neck and is edging closer with every second.

“Shut up. I’m going to kiss you again now.”

And then, Bruce forgets how to speak.

* * *

If anyone’s surprised to see them together, they don’t show it.

Bruce thinks it’s something to do with the fact that Steve and Tony got together the month before – there must be something gay in the air – and with the white, red and blue costume and the million-dollar suit, it’s difficult to pay him and Clint much attention.

Clint says everyone already knew and they probably had bets on when they were going to get together, which makes Bruce feel uncomfortable because hello? This is private life. He also feels just the tiniest bit happy, because it feels good to hear the people you consider friends know you well enough to not give a fuck about your new romantic relationship with your closest friend.

And they are all his friends now, despite how much Bruce tried to stay away from them. You always hurt the ones you love the most. Everyone knows this, especially Bruce, which is why he stayed away from Clint or, correction, why he tried. Not very hard, he’ll admit, but he did refuse a couple of offers for midnight snacks when they first started talking, which is always something.

“Yeah, I always wondered about that. You agreed to melt chocolate so we could put it on top of popcorn one week, but said ‘no’ to renting a candyfloss machine the other.”

“I was trying to be sensible.”

“You don’t have to be sensible with me,” Clint says, reaffirming Bruce’s belief that he’s dating a complete idiot with no sense of self-preservation.

Not that he’s one to talk. Ever since Clint kissed him two weeks ago, Bruce has forgotten the meaning of the word ‘sensible’, a result of Clint’s insistence on making out at every available opportunity.

They’re both idiots, that’s their problem, but at least they’re happy idiots who kiss a lot, which is always better than being sad idiots who aren’t allowed to kiss each other whenever they want to.


	4. Chapter 4

No one throws a party like Tony Stark.

No one even comes close, no matter how much money they spend on trying to imitate the man’s party genius. Tony’s got the best DJs in the city, the best catering and all the drinks anyone could ask for, but most importantly, Tony’s got the atmosphere, which he says is the most important thing in any party.

“You’ve got to have the right atmosphere, otherwise you don’t have the right party,” Tony tells Bruce as they take a walk around the room. The first guests are expected to arrive any minute now, so Tony is busying himself making sure everything is ready to go with Bruce at tow. Everybody else from the team is already there as well since they’re celebrating the Avengers’ One-Year Anniversary.

“Well, it certainly looks like the right party to me,” Bruce says. There’s a lazy air in the room, a lethargy that’s making them all slow and content to just talk to each other for now, but Bruce knows the minute the music starts playing and the drinks start flowing the room will explode. It always does.

Tony grins at him. “You say that but you never enjoy yourself.”

“I’m not a party guy,” Bruce says with a shrug. It’s not his fault. Alcohol doesn’t affect him and the ever-present fear that he’s going to mess up and shift makes him wary of big, social events. Still, Tony’s parties aren’t so bad. The food is always good and his bed is just upstairs. Bruce could ask for little more.

“Make an effort anyway. This is a special night, Banner. This is our night,” Tony says and then winks at him before he goes off in the search of someone tall, blonde and muscular he can grope and show off all night. 

Bruce sometimes feels bad for Steve because being with Tony can’t be easy, but not frequently since it’s hard to feel bad for Captain America and Tony is an amazing guy, even if a little bit too extravagant.

“Hey, there you are,” a pair of strong arms circles Bruce’s waist and tugs him close, “ready to have some fun?” Clint asks, sounding far too debauched for someone who should be on his first drink.

“Oh yes, just can’t wait. The excitement is truly riveting. Already I can feel my blood going faster, my vision swimming and my every nerve stand on edge. The soul of the party calls to me, enticing and full of promise. Like Gatsby’s green light, it’s—”

“I still can’t believe you’re such a smartass.”

Bruce turns around and grins before he drops a quick peck on Clint’s lips. He’s not a cheesy person, nor is he a smartass, or at least, he didn’t think he was. Being with the Avengers, and more importantly being with Clint, has made Bruce relax in a way yoga never came close to. He still his moments of doubt, worry and rage, but they’re coupled with a lot of moments where he can laugh freely and not have to worry about who might be after him. It’s quite nice.

The plan for tonight is for the Avengers to take only sips of their drinks, as they are the hosts and it’s their duty to ‘perform and entertain for as many donations as possible, so that Fury drops off our backs’. This obviously doesn’t happen, and by midnight everyone’s astonishingly drunk except for Bruce and Steve. Even Doctor Pym, who Clint says has a stick up his ass at all times, and Natasha drink like fishes out of water.

This is more than alright for Bruce, who spends most of the night laughing at their sorry asses and filming it. Their marketing team says it looks better if they’re the ones to upload the footage on YouTube, and they get money from ad revenue and sponsors, which is always a plus.

The highlight of the night is when Tony and Clint re-enact Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, with Thor doing the special effects (thunder) and Steve playing all the minor roles after Tony somehow – and Bruce really doesn’t want details – convinces him to do it. Except for the two small fires that break out and all those broken champagne bottles, it’s a very good re-enactment. Well, the strip tease was a bit classless, but what can you do?

Bruce enjoys himself thoroughly the whole night and only decides to leave, with an almost comatose Clint underneath his arm, after all the guests have departed.

“You two are really happy together, aren’t you?” Steve asks as they wait for the elevator. The fond smile on his face could make weaker hearts swoon, but Bruce only loses his breath for a tiny second.

“We work,” Bruce says as Clint begins to drool on his neck. “I’m not sure why or how, but this works.”

Steve smiles again and helps Bruce carry Clint into the elevator, leaving afterwards in a search for Tony, who was last seen trying to talk Fury into dancing a waltz with him.

It’s not until after Bruce has dragged Clint to bed, making sure to take off his nice suit so it doesn’t crumple in the process, that things make a slight turn downwards, like an angel who lost his footing and fell off a cloud, stopping to hit every other cloud while he was at it in his slow descent towards hell.

Sleeping together was never a problem to them. They sleep in Bruce’s floor only when they want full privacy from the world, spending most of their nights at Clint’s since his bed is bigger.

Clint likes to sprawl across the whole mattress, which is not a bother to Bruce, who always manages to settle comfortably underneath one of his arms or legs. Sometimes sleeping on top of each other becomes a bit too much, and since Bruce has to watch out for an overworked heart, they separate and roll to opposite ways. 

Unfortunately, a slight problem arises when Clint drinks. A sober Clint doesn’t care much for the covers and just uses Bruce as his personal radiator. A drunk Clint is the biggest goddamn cover-hog the world has ever seen.

He takes everything. The sheets, the blankets, the comforters and the pillows all become his. He even takes the sheet underneath them, leaving Bruce to lie down cold and alone on the dirty mattress.

Bruce gets up at about three a.m. to get a blanket from the closet, but even this he only gets to keep for about ten minutes, before Clint wraps a sturdy hand around it and pulls it from his gasp. The most annoying part is that there’s nothing Bruce can do, since Clint is far stronger than him and prone to reacting before he thinks. The last, and only, time he tried to get the covers back almost got him a black eye and Clint an angry rage monster.

He gives up on sleep in the same bed as his boyfriend – Bruce isn’t used to that word yet, but it’s what they are so he uses it anyway – at about half past three. He takes his sorry ass to the living room with sleepy steps and barely open eyes. His plan is to crash on the couch and go back to sleep as soon as possible, but his strategy is soiled by Steve and Tony making out like two teenage werewolves in heat right in the middle of the living room.

“Oh god my eyes, my poor eyes,” he says as he enters the room. He might be tired, but he and mockery have an around the clock affair. 

“Fuck off, Banner. You and Clint are way worse,” Tony says with his face still pressed against Steve’s. He flips Bruce as well for good measure, but Bruce just flips him back.

“We’re not. Are you two going to stay here for long?”

“Maybe. What’s it to you?” Tony asks. His words are sharp, but his playful grin takes away all the harm and leaves Bruce grinning as well despite his current condition.

“Clint’s an extreme cover-hog when he’s drunk.”

Tony waves a hand at him. “Take my room then. The sheets were washed this morning so you have nothing to worry about.”

Steve, who up until then had been paralyzed by his embarrassment of being caught snogging Tony like his life depended on it, blushes like a hot tomato at Tony’s last comment. Bruce just shrugs before he makes his way towards Tony’s room. He’s slept in far more horrible places than Tony’s bed, which is a XXXL King that takes up most of the room.

Bruce falls into blissful sleep in mere seconds.

He’s woken up hours later by the sound of the door opening and then closing, followed by a couple of light steps. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who just made the bed dip and kissed the back of his neck. 

“You’re a cover-hog,” he mumbles against one of Tony’s many fluffy pillows.

Clint wraps his arms around Bruce slowly, as if he’s testing the waters. “Sorry,” he whispers against the soft skin of Bruce’s neck. “Do you want me to make you breakfast in bed?”

Bruce shakes his head and sighs. Even though he has every intention to stay mad – well, at least annoyed – at Clint, the resolve breaks at the sound of his voice, too sad and miserable for its own good, like a cute, little puppy that’s just been kicked. He finds himself moving a hand behind him to press it against Clint’s hip before he can do anything about it.

“It’s alright,” he says.

Clint kisses the back of his neck, tongue slipping out to lick the skin there after his teeth graze it. He trails more lazy kisses across Bruce’s neck until he gets to his jaw, which he bites before he makes Bruce lie down on his back.

“Clint,” Bruce says, a plea for him to stop on the tip of his lips, “we can’t.”

Clint leans back to look at him. “The last time you tried to have sex was with Betty three years ago. You’ve changed since then. Your self-control has gotten much better.”

“I can’t hurt you,” Bruce says. What he means is that he has no idea what he’d do if he shifted into the Other Guy and hurt Clint, although flinging himself towards the sun would definitely be on the list.

This is not what Clint hears.

“You won’t,” he says, with so much faith that Bruce will keep to his words that it sends shivers down Bruce’s spine. 

Clint doesn’t believe in many things. He doesn’t believe in vacant promises or superstition of any kind. He doesn’t deny the possible existence of a God or many Gods; he simply doesn’t see why that should bother him. He does, however, believe in concrete things like what he can see, hear and smell. 

Bruce isn’t sure how he’s supposed to react as he realizes Clint believes in him.

“But what if…” he tries to say, but he already knows this is a lost battle and there’s no real strength behind the words. They’ve had similar conversations many times before, and each and every one of them made a dent on Bruce’s conviction until it became this tiny, fragile thing, ready to crumble into dust.

“We’ll take it slow. Stop if you need to, but you won’t. Just focus on my voice and I’ll take care of you,” he presses a kiss against Bruce’s Adam’s apple and lazily trails his lips upwards until he and Bruce are staring at each other face to face with heavy lidded eyes.

Bruce should say ‘stop’. He knows he should because one kiss right now, while they’re both so close with only a thin layer of cloth separating them, is one too many. It is. Bruce knows that, they both do and yet—

“Stop thinking about what will not go wrong, and start thinking about this.”

Clint is quick at taking off all their clothes, which was just a t-shirt and boxers for Bruce and briefs for him. His teeth are sharp on Bruce’s skin, trailing faint pink lines that grow ugly and red whenever he decides to leave a mark. The first one he leaves is on top of Bruce’s right collarbone, the second one beneath his left nipple and the two just above his hipbones. All the while Clint lets out a litany of promises and compliments, words murmured against tanned skin between kisses and bites.

The marks are going to last, Bruce thinks. He’s going to be looking at them in the mirror for days and remembering everything Clint’s saying (“You look so gorgeous, Bruce. God, I’ve wanted to do this for so long now. I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to make this good for both of us.”) regardless of how this goes.

Fuck. He can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

“I really want to suck your dick, but if I do that I’ve got to stop talking,” Clint says with a frown as he lazily strokes Bruce’s dick.

Bruce conjures a mental imagine of Clint between his legs, mouth stretched and swollen as he goes down on Bruce. His eyes would be closed and he’d be making all these terrible, porn star noises because Clint is noisy as hell and he just loves taking Bruce to the edge. 

There would be no way in hell, Bruce would last with Clint blowing him, and since they’re supposed to be taking things slowly – because life is so fucking funny like that – he says, “Then don’t, you cheesy – ah – bastard.”

Clint smiles at him like a shark, all straight lines and teeth, but his eyes are soft and sweet. They make Bruce think ‘I love you’, because here is an idiot risking his life to have sex with him, when they could just keep doing what they were doing until now, which was Bruce sucking him and giving him handjobs. It wasn’t much, Bruce knew, but Clint knew what he was getting into when he first kissed him.

Only he didn’t, did he? Because if he did, they wouldn’t be where they are now, at the edge of a cliff, about to dive into an ocean full of danger and promises because they’re both fucking idiots and Bruce still doesn’t remember how to speak.

“I’m going to fuck you now, and then later you can fuck me, yeah?” Clint asks as he retrieves a small bottle of lube and a condom from the bedside table.

Bruce closes his eyes and most definitely doesn’t imagine Clint spread out on the bed before him. He licks his lips and says. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.”

“Are you going to keep your eyes closed? Because I can work with that,” before Bruce gets a chance to ask what he means, Clint cuts him off with a through explanation of what he’s doing. “I’m pouring out the lube – Tony probably doesn’t need this anyway – and now I’m going to fuck you with my fingers, just one for starters. You’re so tight. Jesus. It’s like you’re trying to kill me.”

Clint’s mouth is right above Bruce’s dick. Bruce can feel every lungful of air he breathes out. It’s tortuous. It’s not enough, not even for someone who hasn’t had sex in three years, but it’s making Bruce’s skin crawl regardless and pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Stop talking, you’re gonna give me a heart attack,” he gasps. He already feels so close, with every nerve on edge and every muscle tense and ready to snap. He can feel Clint inside him, two fingers now, scissoring him at treacherous pace. Bruce can’t even remember the last time he did this, but he’s sure as hell it didn’t feel anything like this.

His words get Clint to pause and ask, “Good heart attack or bad attack?”

“Shut up and fuck me before I kill you.”

“I love it when you’re bossy,” Clint says, but he does as he’s asked so Bruce resists the urge to kick him.

He rolls a condom on his dick and lifts Bruce’s hips with just one hand before he pushes one of Tony’s pillows beneath him for better leverage.

“If this goes well, I want you to fuck me against a wall later,” Bruce says, which makes Clint swear and finally – finally – push inside him.

Not even now, does Clint speed up his pace. He takes things slowly, so fucking slowly, and Bruce knows it’s just to mess with him at this point because he’s not gonna shift. If his heart were to turn on him, it would have done so when Clint was saying all those horrible, brain-melting things, not now when Bruce feels as zen as a grasshopper in a bamboo field while he looks at Clint fucking him.

And praise everything that’s holy in the world, look at Clint.

If the word ‘handsome’ was created after somebody, it was after Clint Barton. His whole body is a smooth plane of muscles, all straight lines and sharp corners. His skin glistens with sweat under the white sunlight and his legs are the kind that go on forever. And those eyes… People could write poems after those eyes. Hell, even Bruce could write a poem after them and he’s shit at poetry. They’re too blue, too deep; full good memories and bad stories that Bruce wants to memorize so he never forgets how Clint’s eyes look.

“You can move, you know,” he says after a couple of seconds of mutual staring.

“I know,” Clint flashes him a breathless grin, “but we are taking this slow, and if I move now I’m not going to last,” even as he speaks, he obeys Bruce’s request and begins to move. 

His thrusts are shallow at first as he tries to stay in control, but then he hits Bruce’s sweet spot and Bruce lets out an actual, real, genuine moan that is so guttural and loud it makes him flush red from embarrassment and hide his face beneath his arms.

“No, no, c’mon, Bruce. I wanna hear you, I wanna see you. You look so fucking gorgeous right now, you have no idea,” Clint says, laughing a little as he hits Bruce’s spot another time and gets a quieter whimper in return.

“I hate you,” Bruce says, not meaning a single word.

“No, you don’t.”

Bruce drops his arms and rests them on the bed before he grabs Clint’s right wrist with one of them. He tries to stroke himself with his other hand, but Clint just bats it away, replacing it with his own hand.

The time it takes for Bruce to come is embarrassingly short, the kind that makes people wonder if they should go to the Doctor. Bruce doesn’t wonder about that. He just momentarily loses his vision, hearing, sense of smell, taste and touch and feels his entire body snap as all those months of coiled tension finally get a chance to uncoil.

Clint watches him the whole time. His eyes are glazed and his mouth is open and then he only has to thrust one, two, three more times before he’s coming inside of Bruce, with his head thrown back and a low groan slipping past his lips.

In just a few seconds, Clint has the condom wrapped and thrown inside the nearest trash can. He falls on top of Bruce promptly afterwards so that they can enjoy the afterglow together while they wait for their hearts to function again.

“We’re gonna have to tell Tony to wash his sheets again,” Bruce manages to say when the sun starts hitting him right in the face and he has to turn over, pushing Clint off him in the process.

Clint laughs and throws an arm over Bruce’s waist so he can pull him close. Classic Barton move. “Nah, let him find out on his own,” Bruce half-heartedly glares at him. It’s important to defend your friends, but a man has gotta know his limits. “What? He owns me. He made me play ‘Gay’ Perry yesterday and you know I love playing Lockhart.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s too cold.

Bruce holds very little power over the Other Guy. They are two separate identities that share the same physical body, so when Bruce shifts, he loses most if not all of his consciousness. The only things he can ever feel from the other guy are the extremes, like a rain of bullets falling over their body, or a ray gun aimed at their heads. This time, he can feel cold.

The Other Guy – a lot of people are calling him Hulk, but Bruce is slow on the change – normally doesn’t feel temperature. Cold, warm, Sahara heat or frozen space are all the same to him, which makes the invisible ice blanket that’s just settled over what remains of Bruce’s mind an extremely bad sign.

He tries to speak to the Other Guy, ask him what’s going on. They can’t actually talk, but sometimes if Bruce thinks something loud enough the Other Guy can hear him and, subsequently, ignore him ninety-nine percent of the time. As expected, his words aren’t heard or are just ignored, and the cold beings to grow. If Bruce had fingers they’d be black, completely frozen and lying on the floor by now.

Another wave of unfiltered ice hits him. Weren’t they in Manhattan? What the hell is going on? If the Other Guy is like this, then the rest of the Avengers must be one step away from turning into icicles.

Bruce’s last thought is about Clint before he begins to feel warm again, and all the Other Guy’s feelings of discomfort and cold are substituted by pure, centred rage.

\-- // --

“Atchuu!”

“Bless you.”

“Thanks,” says the pitiful, tiny voice hidden beneath the covers.

“Do you want me to get you anything?” Bruce asks. He puts down his Stark Pad so he can pull away the covers and give Clint some more air to breathe. It can’t be doing him any good to have a fort of blankets over him, no matter how many times he says he’s comfortable and how adorable it makes him look.

“Water. And some more cold medicine,” he takes a pause to sniffle pathetically and blow his nose, “I fucking hate being sick.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Bruce asks, already up and headed towards their well supplied bathroom.

“You can’t speak! Do you even get sick anymore?” Clint shouts before he whimpers and hides again. Any sort of physical effort seems to cost him a thousand times more than it usually does, but Clint being Clint is still trying to act normal and like this isn’t bothering all that much.

Bruce doesn’t blame him. It’s typical superhero behaviour and everyone else is acting the exact same. Steve has been trying to force doctors and nurses down everyone’s throats ever since Doom got creative and tried to, literally, freeze Manhattan. Bruce has given up on trying to help everyone else since they’re impossible to deal with, and has limited himself to making sure Clint stays in bed and eats his soup.

“Don’t think so, no,” Bruce hands him his medicine and a glass of water, taking the opportunity to check Clint’s temperature with the back of his hand. “You’re lucky you don’t have a fever, or you’d be lying in an ice bathtub right now.”

“And to think I ever loved you.”

Bruce chuckles at the little glare Clint tries to send his way. He’s seen the man walk off bullet shots, stabs wounds and enough punches to his head to knock out a small elephant, and here he is being defeated by a common cold. 

“I’m pretty sure you still love me, especially after I helped you take a shower yesterday.”

“Shut up,” Clint says, groaning, “I’m weak and sick, you can’t make fun of me now. It’s unfair.”

Bruce shrugs, but sits down on his side of bed and picks up his pad anyway. He’s five minutes into Captain Kirk flirting blaringly with every person on board the Enterprise – it was the movies that won him over – when Clint says, “You know what we need?”

“You? A shower, some toast and more water. Me a new pillow since you stole my last one.”

“Didn’t steal, borrowed. Anyways, no, what we need is a break. A nice, warm break near the beach. We’ll stay in a little, wooden cottage as far away as possible from humanity and crazy psychos who want to freeze a whole city.”

“Sounds pleasant. Have anywhere in mind?” Bruce asks, not paying much attention to the conversation. Avengers don’t get breaks, especially not Avengers who turn into beasts when they get angry.

“Tony’s got a bunch of private islands. We’ll get him to lend us one.”

“That’s ridiculous. People don’t actually own islands,” a pause for thought. Bruce isn’t exactly an expert on stupid things rich people do, and he certainly wouldn’t put it past Tony to buy an island just for the heck of it, “do they?”

“It’s Tony. Ridiculous is practically his middle name. He was thinking of buying Steve one for his birthday, but I told him it was too much for Captain America’s humble heart. You should go ask him if he’ll lend us one while he’s still sick and pliant.”

“Are we really doing this? Going on vacation just the two of us?”

Clint turns to look at him, heading poking out beneath the covers. “Not if you don’t wanna do it, no, I just thought I’d be nice to spend some time together without all the crazy end-of-the-world crap.”

“It’s nice. I mean, it will be nice,” a smile spreads across Bruce’s face on its own accord, “I’ll go ask Tony right now.”

\-- // --

“Hey, Bruce, wake up. We’re here,” Clint shakes Bruce’s shoulder, pulling him away from the valley of dreams.

“What? I’m awake – shit – totally awake,” he says, voice groggy from sleep, and ignores Clint’s smirk as he sits up.

He made a promise to stay up for the whole flight to ensure Clint didn’t grow bored and decided to do some loops for fun, but they left far later than expected when Juggernaut decided kidnapping Tony at four a.m. was just the thing to do.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” Bruce murmurs. Beneath them is a small, tropical island. Except for the single airstrip and a tiny wooden cottage near the beach, there are no other signs of civilization for miles. It’s as if someone took a screenshot of Eat, Pray, Love, which Bruce saw on accident and didn’t enjoy the least bit, and slapped it on the horizon.

“Can’t believe you’re really doing this or can’t believe you’re really doing this with me?” Clint asks. His tone is light and playful, but his tight grip on the controls that’s quickly turning his knuckles white says otherwise. It appears to be they’re having a serious moment.

They don’t have serious moments regularly. They’re not like Van Dyne and Doctor Pym, always yelling at each other one second and making out in the next, or Tony and Steve, always running after one another like cats and dogs.

Bruce and Clint are quieter. They know each other well enough to know pushing buttons and pressing for answers is not the way to go, which helps them avoid mentioning touchy topics at bad times like, say, during a fight. They still talk a lot, maybe even more than all the others, but they do it to their own rhythm during moments like this one, where the mood is light and the conversation hasn’t grown heavy yet.

“Doing this. Last time I had a real vacation I was seven and we went to Coney Island for a weekend. We only stayed until Saturday evening because my dad got angry,” Bruce says, looking away for a second before he looks at Clint again and smiles, “I can perfectly believe I’m here doing this with you. You’ve been drooling on my pillow for over a year now and last month I spent a week by your bedside after you jumped out of a building. Again.”

“You caught me, though. You always do.”

“Yes, but you still broke nearly every bone in your body,” Bruce says, levelling Clint with a chilly stare.

“Hazards of the job,” Clint says, squeezing Bruce’s arm in a silent apology.

“Are you going to circle the island one more time or are you going to land us?” Bruce asks to change the subject.

“Jeez, aren’t you pushy. See that airstrip over there? That’s smaller than Spider-Man’s bank account. I need to slow down before I try to land us.”

“Oh, so you weren’t the one bragging about being the world’s best pilot two hours ago, were you?”

Bruce settles in comfortably as Clint all but crashes the jet in a forced landing.

\-- // --

The sand is white. The sea is light blue and crystal clear, a perfect imitation of the cloudless sky above it. Everything looks even more perfect up close than it had in the jet, and Bruce has to pinch himself twice to make sure he’s no longer dreaming.

“This place is amazing,” Clint says, already headed out towards the beach with all their bags on his shoulders. “Do you think there are any fish around here? I’d like to try fishing for fun. First things first though, let’s go take a swim.”

“Shouldn’t we see the cabin first?” Bruce asks as follows Clint. He takes off his shoes when they get to the sand and watches Clint do the same while somehow managing to hold all their stuff.

“There’s no one around for miles. If we don’t go skinny dipping now, when will we go skinny dipping?”

“Well, after we see the cottage and unpack sounds like a—“

“Bruce. Come on. I’m trying to be sexy and adventurous, but this is a two-way role. Sex tapes aren’t solo jobs.”

“Firstly, we’re not making a sex tape for anyone else to find and post on the internet. Secondly, I’m not either of those things.”

“That’s just what you’ve fooled yourself into believing. Now get naked,” Clint dumps all their bags – and their food – on the sand without a second thought, “and I promise I won’t take any pictures.”

Bruce stares in horror as Clint looks away and whispers, “yet.”

The most terrifying part about all this ‘sex tape’ talk is that against all odds, Bruce doesn’t mind it that much.

A little over two years ago he lived in a small, dirty hut in the heart of India. He tried to help people with rudimentary tools and spent his free time meditating and avoiding people. His concept of ‘personal life’ no longer existed and he had no one to love or care for and vice-versa.

A little over two years ago, Bruce was made out of soft smiles because he knew they helped people relax when near him. He was scared of shadows, little noises and promises. Promises of pain. Promises of a cure. Promises of a better future.

And then he went and accepted Fury’s request. He became part of something greater and better than him. He befriended all these amazing people with lots of baggage, just like him, but lots of funny stories to tell too. He fell in love with this idiotic, preposterous archer who never watches his back and says things like ‘well, this looks bad’ while he’s being pursued by every armed person on the planet, and the most mind-blogging part is that this archer, who is also brave, reckless, hard-working and so very kind, fell for him as well.

Bruce used to be a nervous guy. Even before he became the Hulk, he had a lot of problems. He was anti-social, too focused on his work, brash and never really appreciated the few good things he had while they lasted. But now he’s not. Now he’s relaxed and happy. Now he’s able to make fun of others and himself without worrying about upsetting people and messing up.

Part of him still thinks that this is all going to end one day. That one day Clint will forget to watch his back for a last time, or Bruce will slip and turn into the Other Guy at the wrong time on wrong place.

Good things hardly ever last, but for now, Bruce is going to get naked. He’s going to worry about poisonous jellyfish and not surprise attacks from the army. He’s going to fish their dinner with Clint, find if there are any coconuts on the island and get a tan. He’s going to say ‘no’ to filming a sex tape three more times before he caves in, and he’s not going to think about how happy he is in case he jinxes it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on a whim because I'm incredibly self-indulgent like that. Not beta'ed by anyone, so apologies for any mistakes you might find. This fic is set after the Avengers movie but it's mostly inspired by the comics and the cartoon. Steve/Tony is mostly just a background pairing.
> 
> Any critiques, comments, reviews or basic spell-checks are appreciated. x


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